


If I didn’t care

by danielosbourne



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Erectile Dysfunction, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Prostate Massage, Rectal Dilators, Virgin Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danielosbourne/pseuds/danielosbourne
Summary: Steve Rogers is a son-of-a-bitch. It’s not news to any one who’s ever poked their nose down one of Red Hook’s less savory alleyways, and sure as hell isn’t news to Bucky, but Christ, the punk is really driving the point home lately.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 17
Kudos: 195





	If I didn’t care

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure better versions of this fic have been written, but I really needed a distraction from election day doomscrolling.
> 
> CW: uninformed consent (repressed sexuality and all) & very brief, plot-irrelevant allusion to abortion

Steve Rogers is a son-of-a-bitch. It’s not news to any one who’s ever poked their nose down one of Red Hook’s less savory alleyways, and sure as hell isn’t news to Bucky, but _Christ_ , the punk is really driving the point home lately.

Bucky’s used to Steve taking out his temper on schoolyard bullies or fellas getting too handsy behind the dancehall, but tonight it’s their rickety door frames and hand-me-down dishes taking the brunt of his rage. Bucky’s starting to wonder if their apartment, with all the structural integrity of a matchbox, can survive the night if this keeps up.

“What the hell, Steve?” Bucky finally interjects after Steve chips a second dish tossing it carelessly on the drying rack.

“Aw, Buck, these bowls are older than we are. Shitty craftsmanship, is all.”

“No, you’re fuckin’ throwing them around. Sit down. I’ll do the dishes.”

Steve stalks off to their room, slamming the door behind him. The Millers downstairs are sure to give them hell about the racket.

Bucky lets Steve stew for as long as it takes to get the kitchen back in order, racking his mind for what’s got his friend so steamed up. It’s been an easier Spring than years past, far as Bucky can tell. Steve’s had a steady stream of commissions ever since he signed up for that drawing class, and hasn’t had any trouble keeping up his half of the rent since January. Only got real sick the once, but Bucky had been able to keep him out of the hospital this time with a steady supply of aspirin and Winnie’s chicken soup.

Steve even found himself a girl recently. Betty or Betsy, Bucky can’t remember. Some gal from the drawing class. Steve hasn’t been too forthcoming, but more than one evening with the same dame—and one Bucky hadn’t pushed on him, no less—was remarkable enough to take notice.

“Steve?”

Bucky taps gently at the door. Knocking is rarity between them, but Bucky’s not about to kick the hornet’s nest. When there’s no reply, he enters.

Steve’s on his bed, hunched over his sketchbook in the insufficient lamplight.

“You okay, pal?”

Steve shrugs, not looking up.

“Girl trouble?” It’s Bucky’s best guess.

“ _Jesus_ , Bucky,” laments Steve.

Bucky refrains from rolling his eyes, but only just. Plenty of guys they grew up with have wives now, kids even, and Steve Rogers still blushes like a lobster when his best friend asks him about a few dates.

“C’mon, Steve. I ain’t gonna give you a hard time, I just wanna know what’s the matter.”

“Nothing’s the matter.”

“Bullshit. You don’t get careless with your Ma’s china over nothing.”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Steve snaps with a deepening scowl.

Steve wants to talk about _everything_ , all the time. Bucky gets home from work, and Steve starts yammering about the Nazis invading Denmark, some Picasso exhibit, or on a good day, the Dodgers. And then Steve asks _questions_ , all kinds of nosy shit. He has questions about Bucky’s job at the box factory, about what happened after his movie date with Millie Lieberman, about what Becca wants for her birthday this year. Steve wants to know what Bucky thinks about all sorts of things Bucky wouldn’t have thought to think about if Steve hadn’t asked.

Only time in recent memory Steve shut Bucky out like _this_ was right after his Ma died.

“Did someone die?” Bucky asks in a panic.

“No.” Steve slams his sketchbook shut with a heavy sigh.

“Is someone dying?”

“ _No_.”

“Then what’s going on? I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be.”

Worrying about Steve is his life’s work, a responsibility Bucky accepted from the first time he saw a priest give his tiny, ailing friend last rites at 8-years-old. Doesn’t mean Steve isn’t resentful as hell about it, though.

“Doesn’t work like that, Stevie. All either of us know how to cook is oatmeal and stew. We’re shit out of luck if you go breakin’ all our bowls.”

It’s a dumb joke, but gets half a smirk out of Steve.

“Sorry. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass lately.”

“ _Lately?_ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve rolls his eyes.

“You know you can tell me anything,” says Bucky with only the tiniest twinge of guilt, knowing full well the reverse isn’t true.

“Not this, Buck. It’s too embarrassing.”

So, _definitely_ girl trouble then.

“Promised not to give you a hard time, didn’t I? Something to do with that Betty gal?”

“Betsy,” Steve corrects, eyes narrowing.

“ _Betsy_. She treatin’ you right?”

“Yeah, she’s real sweet to me,” Steve says quietly. He’s not looking at Bucky anymore, which is for the best, because the words settle like arsenic in his gut.

“That’s great, pal,” says Bucky, hating himself for not meaning it, “So what’s the problem?”

Steve is silent for a while, picking invisible lent off the worn bedspread. Bucky is second guessing pushing Steve on this if it means listening to him wax poetic about some dame.

“You’ve been with girls, Bucky.”

Steve knows he has. Steve’s asked for details Bucky ought to have smacked him for, but his own pride and a little bit of pity he’ll never admit to overruled common decency once or twice. Far as Bucky knows, Steve hasn’t, ever.

“You ever…” Steve trails off, “You ever have any trouble—you know—” he extends his pointer finger in a crude demonstration “—gettin’ it up?”

He mumbles the last part so quickly, Bucky has to do a double take at the finger to be sure he understood right. He sucks in a shaky breath before answering.

“Sure. You know, if I’ve had too much to drink, or, or I’m real tired…” Truth is, a stiff wind could get Bucky going most days. He’d be in a world of trouble if his dick were as particular as his heart.

“No,” Steve shakes his head, “It’s not like that, Buck. I can’t—I just—I want to and I can’t.”

“Like, at all?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s no trouble. But I got a weak heart, you know? Can’t always…last long enough. And sometimes not at all. It’s gotten harder since that flu in February.”

Steve looks like he might cry. Fuck, Bucky might cry. All the misery Steve’s had to live through, all the cruel ways his body has betrayed him over the years, and he can’t have this one simple way to make himself feel good? To feel pleasure?

“Steve—” starts Bucky. But what is there to say? He should have kept his mouth shut and let Steve destroy the apartment.

“Look, forget it. I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m not like you, Bucky, I don’t have girls lining up around the block for a date. Someone finally spared me a second glance, and now...”

“So, you tried? With Betsy?” asks Bucky, heart in his throat.

“No. But she—she’s a good girl, Buck—she just let me touch her a bit. You know, under her blouse. And maybe she would have let it go further, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. My body’s broken.”

“Aw, Steve. This ain’t your fault. Have you—have you talked to Dr. Fischer?”

“I can’t talk to Dr. Fischer about this. He’s been givin’ me checkups since I was six. He knew my Ma,” says Steve, still looking anywhere but Bucky, “But I, um, did go talk to Dr. Simpson.”

It takes Bucky a moment to work out where he’s heard that name before, and he nearly chokes on his own tongue when he does. It doesn’t make any sense. Far as Bucky can deduce, Dr. Simpson runs some kind of word-of-mouth ladies’ clinic. For ladies in a _certain kind_ of trouble. A few girls he knows have mentioned getting their diaphragm from him.

“Steve, why would you—why would you go to _him_?”

“Dr. Simpson is a woman,” Steve corrects indignantly. As if that doesn’t make it all the more confounding.

“You went to a lady doctor about your limp dick?” Bucky wants to kick himself immediately for being so indelicate, but Steve’ll probably do it for him by the look on his face.

“Nevermind, Buck. I told you I didn’t want to talk about this.”

“Fuck—I’m sorry. You’re braver than I am, is all. I just, I thought Dr. Simpson only saw dames.”

Steve shrugs, “Mostly, I guess. But she knows a lot about all sorts of stuff you can’t go to a regular doctor about. She’s not a quack, either. Has a real medical degree and everything.”

“Okay, so. What’d she say?” asks Bucky.

Steve seems to deliberate a moment before reaching under the bed. He’s retrieves an unmarked box, about the right size for a pair of shoes, and places it on the bed between them. Bucky stares, waiting for an explanation, and when none comes, he moves to unlid the box himself.

“What am I lookin’ at, Steve?” asks Bucky, curiously out of breath all of a sudden. In the box are four silver rods of increasing size, wide and flat at one end, bulbus at the other.

“Rectal dilators,” Steve says carefully.

Might as well be Greek, for all that clears things up. Bucky’s not a complete idiot, though. He’s got a basic enough understanding of human anatomy to make his own deductions. A little shiver goes down his spine at the realization.

Steve’s as red as a Jersey tomato, bracing for some kind of reaction, but Bucky’s determined to keep himself in check this time. He won’t cause his friend any more shame, not for this.

“You tried ‘em yet?”

“Just this one,” says Steve, pointing to the smallest of the set, looking wary, “It fuckin’ hurt.”

Bucky nods. He knows it can. He knows it doesn’t have to, either. But he’s not about to let Steve in on how much he knows about sticking things up his own ass.

“Did it work?”

Steve shakes his head, “It’s supposed to reach someplace inside. That helps with—you know. But I don’t think I did it right.”

Bucky’s really not in the right mind to be thinking about Steve doing _it_ at all. There’s nothing he can say, no help he can offer that wouldn’t give away his most carefully guarded secret. That wouldn’t cost him everything. Steve’s shame is unacceptable, but Bucky’s is his lifeline.

“I tried with just my finger—”

 _Fucking hell_.

“—but it hurt my back hurt trying to hold the position. I couldn’t reach. I’d try just about anything at this point.”

“D’you think Betsy could help?”

Steve blanches, “I don’t want Betsy to _know_! She wouldn’t want anything to do with me! Besides, what could she even do?”

“ _Help you reach_ ,” Bucky says pointedly, though the image makes his stomach churn.

“Bucky! Girls don’t…do that.”

He snorts, “You’d be surprised.”

“I can’t ask her to do that.”

“Thought you said you’d try anything.”

Steve slumps, “Yeah. I’m just tired of having to try so hard.”

The universe has never pulled punches with Steve, but it’s the first time Bucky’s ever heard him sound defeated.

“You want me to?” asks Bucky, forcing the words out before reason gets the best of him. He’s taken care of Steve any number of ways over the years: shared body heat, laundered vomit from their sheets, carried Steve’s fever damp body to the bath when he was too week to walk. The only reason Bucky hesitates to offer all of himself now is cowardice, fear his own secrets will be revealed. He doesn’t know if he can help with this, doesn’t know if Steve will allow him to, but leaving his best friend helpless instead of offering would be the worst option.

Steve doesn’t leap off the bed or sock him in the jaw. For a moment, Bucky wonders if Steve even heard what he said, but the surprise is clear enough on his face.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Steve says finally.

“You’re not asking, I’m offering. Look, I know it’s a little—”

“Humiliating?”

“Christ, Steve, no. You’re sick, that’s all. And it’s obviously making you fucking miserable, so if there’s some way I can help you, let me help.”

“You understand what you’re offering to do?” asks Steve, eyes wide.

Bucky nods. Steve just stares, silent. Waiting for Bucky to balk, maybe. Or crack a joke, laugh it off. Bucky doesn’t.

“If you’re sure,” Steve assents.

Bucky nods once more, keeping his expression carefully neutral despite the adrenaline rising through his veins. The ways this could go pear shaped are too numerous to count.

“You free tonight?” asks Steve, aiming for casual.

“You mean now?” It’s already after 9.

“It’s been _months_ , Bucky,” whines Steve.

“Right. I mean, yeah. I should, uh…clean up?”

Fuck, that was graceless. It’s better that it’s happening now, so that he doesn’t have time to panic even more, but he feels dangerously unprepared. His experience with men is thus far limited to some eavesdropping at the Navy Yard, his own private fantasies, and…himself.

Bucky retreats to the bathroom to wash his hands, suppressing a pointless impulse to primp. It’s a goddamn medical procedure, not a date. He runs a wet hand through his hair to smooth the strays anyway, and splashes some water on his face in hopes of rinsing off the deer-in-the-headlights look.

When Bucky opens the bathroom door, Steve’s on the other side.

“I need to clean up too,” he mutters, squeezing by.

Bucky waits on Steve’s bed, pondering the likelihood he’ll be homeless by the night’s end. By all indications, Steve is a tolerant sort. Bucky knows the art school is filled with queers, and Steve’s never said a word against any of them. But Bucky isn’t an acquaintance, a colleague, or a passerby. He and Steve share a life together, a home, sometimes a bed, and now…this. How could Steve know the truth and not question _all_ of it. The way Bucky wants Steve has always been kept separate from the way he loves him, but he won’t be able to convince a soul of that after what they’re about to do.

“Bucky?”

Steve’s standing in the doorway wearing only his shorts and an undershirt now, holding the tin of Vaseline they keep in the bathroom. He looks terrified.

“You’re really okay with this?” Steve asks quietly.

“Yes,” answers Bucky with more assurance than he feels, “But you make the rules, okay? You’re gonna have to talk to me, so I know what you need and when to stop.” Whatever the fallout, Bucky wants this to work.

Steve nods, holding out the Vaseline for Bucky to take, “I’m going to undress now,” he announces, oddly formal. Bucky looks away, as though nudity isn’t a daily feature of sharing living quarters with each other. There’s a good deal of rustling and a dip in the mattress before Bucky looks over to where Steve has positioned himself. He’s naked from the waist down, ass propped up on a pillow beneath his hips. Even with his bum ear, Steve must hear the way Bucky’s heart thuds in his chest.

“I’m going to touch you now,” says Bucky, copying robotic cadence he’d heard from Steve. Quickly, he dips an index finger into the open tin, placing his other hand low on Steve’s back, just above the cleft of his ass.

Bucky gently presses his slicked finger to Steve’s hole, careful not to push in. He refrains from doing anything that might be construed as a caress even though Steve is desperately tense.

“Steve, buddy, I need you to breathe,” he encourages, trying to sound more like himself and less like an animatronic rectal dilator.

Steve laughs suddenly, surprising them both.

“This might be the dumbest thing we ever did, Buck,” Steve says into the mattress.

“Might be,” Bucky agrees, “You want me to stop?”

Steve shakes his head, silent. His body is less rigid than it was, but the ring of muscle where Bucky’s finger rests is still clenched tight. Bucky circles his finger just once, adding the slightest bit of pressure. He can hear the hitch in Steve’s breath, but no additional protest comes. Bucky does it again, petting at Steve’s asshole until he feels the slightest give.

Bucky’s only ever done this to himself, so it’s hard to say what’s best practice versus personal preference, but he figures it can’t hurt to start slow. He presses in at a glacial pace, wishing he could see Steve’s face to gauge his reaction.

Steve gives nothing away until Bucky feels a familiar swell of tissue inside, and Steve’s carefully measured breaths stop entirely.

“ _Breathe_ ,” pleads Bucky.

Steve does, with a gasp so labored and raspy Bucky’s worried he’s triggered an asthma attack.

“Steve?”

“I’m alright,” pants Steve, “It feels different. When you do it.”

“Oh, uh…sorry? I can do it however you want.”

“No, it’s good. I’m just not used to being touched,” admits Steve, who probably didn’t _intend_ to break Bucky’s heart with that statement.

Bucky touches Steve all the time, of course. He’ll use any excuse to, but always well within the bounds of friendship. Even now, with those boundaries blown to hell, and _a finger up Steve’s ass_ he’s holding back. Steve should be kissed and stroked and pressed against by a body as naked and vulnerable as his own. Steve deserves to feel good, but also loved.

Bucky can’t, of course, do any of those things. The whole point of trying to sort this out tonight is so Steve can do them with _Betsy_ , which is a sobering enough thought to bring him back to the present. Steve seems to have settled from the initial shock of sensation, so Bucky starts to carefully rub the little bundle of nerves at his fingertip.

Gradually Steve’s hips start to move in time with Bucky’s ministrations, until he’s brazenly humping the pillow underneath him. The sight is no match for Bucky’s faltering self-control, his own dick taking an enthusiastic interest in the proceedings. It’s easy enough to ignore with Steve faced away and a job to do, but unsettling nonetheless given the kind of caution he’s used to implementing around his friend.

“Bucky, I think—” mutters Steve, clawing frantically at the bed.

“Is it working?”

“Yeah. Yeah. But I gotta turn over.” Without further warning, he’s turning, and Bucky scrambles to keep his hand buried deep enough between his cheeks. He slips a little—not all the way out, but away from Steve’s prostate. Steve spreads his legs wider so Bucky can regain access and…asthma isn’t catching but Bucky’s suddenly the one struggling for air.

Steve’s beautiful like this. Bucky bites his tongue to keep the words from spilling out, and works his finger deeper. Steve’s half-hard at least, which would apparently be progress.

“Hand me the slick?” asks Steve. Bucky does, watching Steve scrape out a generous amount before wrapping a hand around himself. He moves in time with Bucky’s finger, and it’s one more line crossed into perilously unknown territory. It’s too much like fucking, like this. It’s too much like everything Bucky’s ever wanted, except none of it’s real. And his hand is starting to cramp.

“Steve—” Bucky starts. He needs a break, he needs to jerk off, he needs _something_.

“I’m close, Buck. I’m so close,” breathes Steve, eyes clenched tight. He’s still not quite fully hard, but it must be enough. He starts working himself faster and Bucky can hardly back out _now_.

Steve’s body goes taut, and Bucky thinks they must be nearing the finish line, but then Steve lets out a miserable cry. He hasn’t come, but there’s a bead of moisture at the tip of his dick and tears trailing from his eyes. His skin is mottled pink from his forehead to the sliver of chest visible above his shirt collar. He looks like he’s being tortured.

“I need—I need more. Fuck!”

“More what?” asks Bucky, frantic.

But Steve is shaking his head back and forth, tears flowing freely, and something inside of Bucky is breaking. Whatever sense of self preservation he has, most likely. His free hand reaches out to rest on Steve’s hip first, and when there’s no reaction Bucky slides his hand over to cover the one Steve’s using to jack himself. Steve doesn’t miss a beat, but his eyes fly open.

“Please,” whispers Steve.

 _Yes_ , thinks Bucky, though he has no idea what Steve is asking. He throws a leg over to straddle Steve on the bed for a better angle, and it’s impossible to pretend like this is anything but sex now. Steve is writhing, weeping, eyes locked on Bucky as their hands move together. When Steve begins arching off the bed, he lets his hand fall away, leaving Bucky to finish him off. Bucky’s going to _make Steve come_. Briefly, his mind flashes through every forbidden desire he’s ever tried and failed to repress: taking Steve in his mouth, replacing the finger in Steve’s ass with his cock, _kissing_ Steve—on the mouth, his flushed chest, anywhere, everywhere.

“Bucky!” Steve cries as he comes.

It’s a mess. As much spunk as Bucky’s ever seen in one go, and more keeps coming as he works Steve through the aftershocks. It’s fascinating and kind of distracting, which is the only excuse Bucky has for not having budged from Steve’s lap when he’s clearly just made such a wreck of his life he should be running for the hills. Bucky yanks his finger out too quickly, making Steve wince, but he’s got to get out of here before Steve tries to do something truly deranged like _talk_ about it.

He’s backing away from the bed when Steve grabs him by the elbow.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” warns Steve. He’s still flushed and not quite breathing right, but the look in his eyes is fierce and familiar.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky chokes out.

“For what?”

“I don’t know, Steve, I’m sorry for all of it, okay?” And Christ, is he ever. The tears spill hot and undignified down to his chin. He doesn’t shake off Steve’s hold, but clenches his eyes shut like a child trying to will himself invisible.

“Hey, Buck. Now _you_ gotta breathe,” says Steve, using his free hand to wipe at Bucky’s face. It feels earth-shatteringly intimate despite their recent activities.

“Because I need to make sure I understand,” Steve continues, “If you mean you’re sorry for—for what we did? Or sorry because you liked it?”

Bucky could use this as an out, he supposes. He’s not such a terrible liar, and is perfectly capable of cowardice when the occasion suits. But it feels cruel in the face of the courage Steve has shown tonight.

“I don’t mean to,” Bucky whispers, “I swear to God I’d never do anything you didn’t want me to.”

Steve’s hand stills on Bucky’s wet face, “Nothing happened just now that I didn’t want.”

“Yeah, but—”

“What do _you_ want?” asks Steve, a little less gently.

“Fuck, Steve. Like you don’t know,” Bucky barks back, aware that with emotions running so high this could quickly spiral out of control in an entirely different direction. He forces himself meet Steve’s gaze.

“I’m not going to _guess_ , Bucky. Not about this.”

“I want—” starts Bucky, ready to fillet himself like a fish for this man, “I want to kiss you.”

Bucky’s pretty sure that’s not what he meant to say, because it’s only a crumb of the entire, terrifying truth…and a little pedestrian from a fella who fancies himself a romantic. But Steve smiles at him anyway, watery and golden. Bucky might just float away with relief.

He doesn’t, because Steve goes ahead and kisses him. A firm press of closed lips at an awkward angle that wouldn’t be any good at all coming from anyone else, but in this moment is somehow better than soft serve at Coney Island and a Dodgers win all on the same day. As it sinks in he’s not about to have his heart shattered into a million pieces, Bucky thinks they can do even better. He snakes a hand around Steve’s bare waist, leaning forward to take the lead. They both whimper when Steve finally opens his mouth. Bucky wouldn’t know for sure, of course, but this has got to be what it feels like to win the World Series.

“You been holding out on me,” huffs Steve. Bucky doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry in response.

“Didn’t think I had a choice, pal,” he admits. Steve’s eyes go soft with sympathy.

Bucky kisses him again before Steve can start asking questions, because he _knows_ there will be questions. About how long, and _why_ , and all the women, and if there have been any men and—Bucky will answer them all, because if he’s learned one thing tonight it’s tell Steve Rogers the goddamn truth. But for now, he wants to bask in the victory of a hard-earned orgasm and requited love.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta’d. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> 💜 Feedback


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